


Bygone Boy

by Masterofceremonies



Series: Batjokes Fics! [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Gone Girl (2014)
Genre: F/M, Identity Porn, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7951375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masterofceremonies/pseuds/Masterofceremonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his husband's disappearance having become the focus of an intense media circus, Bruce becomes the main suspect in the developing murder case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Gone Girl and immediately thought that since Ben Affleck was in it there needed to be a Batman AU.
> 
> You don't need to have seen Gone Girl or read the book for this. Technically, you don't need to be a fan of Batman or Gone Girl for this to make sense, but if you aren't I'm a bit curious as to why you clicked on this in the first place...
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

When Bruce thought about his husband, he always thought about his head. When they lay together, sprawled out on the couch, or curled up in bed, his fingers running through soft blonde hair, he'd picture cracking open his lovely skull, unspooling his brain, trying to get answers. This happened more often than he cared to admit.

Bruce didn’t like to think of himself as a violent person, one that would attack without reason, or even one who would lash out just from provocation.

He liked to be in control.

Despite his revulsion with his own thoughts, the primal questions of marriage remained the source of his morbidity. What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Questions he normally didn’t have to ask. Questions he normally didn’t want to ask. Most people bored or disgusted him. Or some combination of both.

But Jack? No… not him. Jack was… entirely different.

And as his gentle stroking of Jack’s hair turned into more of a rough tug, purely unconscious, he couldn’t stop the thoughts. The questions. 

What are you thinking? How are you feeling?

Jack startled awake at a particularly sharp tug lifting his head and freeing himself from Bruce’s grasp. Turning, his wide green eyes were widened in alarm, no trace of sleepiness to be found in them. Bruce tried to arrange his face into a pleasant and innocent mask, but he knew Jack could see through his mask in a second, he knew the man was reading his thoughts as plainly as if he had spoken aloud, and the question that hung in the air was one that they both had asked themselves at one time or another.

_What have we done to each other?_


	2. JULY 5TH: THE MORNING OF

Bruce was relieved to be out of the house. He needed space. Time to think. So he did what he always did when he wanted some time alone, and headed to the roof of the penthouse. But the thoughts buzzing around his head were too much to deal with alone for too long, so after a few hours of watching the cityscape change, he gave up on introspection and decided to seek out some company.

Climbing down the fire escape to avoid having to walk through the penthouse, he made his way downtown to the Batcave, a bar he ran with his ward. Well…. Sort of ran it. He’d been slacking off as of late.

Walking in, he met the sharp blue eyes of Dick Grayson, his ward, standing behind the bar and grinning.

“Bruce! The prince of Gotham graces us with his presence.” Dick grinned as Bruce took a seat on a barstool.

“Pour me a bourbon, would you?” He replied. Dick glanced pointedly at the clock, which they both knew read 11:09 a.m. When Bruce made no attempt to explain himself, Dick poured two glasses and slid one across the bar, leaning on his elbows and dropping his voice to better simulate privacy, despite the bar being almost entirely empty.

“What’s up, Jitters?” He asked pointedly. Bruce shrugged, remaining silent. Dick tried to wait him out, but he was never particularly good at being quiet. “If you don’t talk, I’ll fill the silence with: an Excruciating Story by Dick Wayne.” He threatened.

Bruce snorted and resolutely kept his mouth shut. With an exaggerated sigh, like he was being forced through a long boring speech instead of preparing to give one. “I could tell you about being hit on at the gym yet again.”

“A timeless classic.” Bruce grinned. “Cougar or Sugar Daddy?”

“Actually, it was a yoga twink.” He frowned. “I must be getting old.” Bruce laughed as Dick continued. “Or I could tell you about the time I saw a guy who looked exactly like Alfred, but wasn’t Alfred…

“—whose name was Alfred.” Bruce nodded. He knew the story well.

“Made it kind of interesting. And more embarrassing…” He trailed off, giving Bruce a weary and impatient look. He folds, knowing that this is an argument he won’t win.

“Today…. It’s just a bad day.”

“Jack?” Dick made a face in between an eye roll and a look of disgust.

“Our anniversary.” Bruce nodded tiredly. “Five.”

“Five?!” Dick whistled, long and low. “That came fast.”

“And furious.” Bruce muttered, almost bitterly, before shaking his head like he was clearing it. “It seems like so long ago and just like yesterday…”


	3. Diary Entry

Tra and la! I am smiling a big adopted-orphan smile as I write this.

I met a boy.

This is a technical, empirical truth.

I met a boy!

A great, gorgeous dude, a funny, cool-ass guy.

Let me set the scene, because it deserves setting, and I was never one to shy away from dramatic flair. It’s winter: early dark, freezing cold. I’m going to a party. A newish friend – semi-friend, barely friend, the kind of friend you can’t cancel on – has talked me into going. Now, I like parties, but this is a writer party. Not that I don’t like writers, I am a writer, but… (fine, I write jokes, I don’t write about the Great Issues of the Day, but I think it’s fair to say I am a writer) but really, I do think my jokes alone qualify me on at least an honorary basis. Right?

Anyway. I like writers but not writer parties. Writer parties are parties where people drink too much and pick cleverly worded fights, blowing cigarette smoke out an open window even after the host asks them to go outside. Writer parties are parties where everyone’s already talked to one another at a thousand other writer parties and have nothing left to say and everyone is collectively bored but they’re still talking because they don’t want to go back into the January cold.

Not to mention that I am sublimely worried that this friend wants to set me up. I am not interested in being set up. I need to be ambushed, caught unawares, like some sort of feral love-jackal. I’m too self-conscious otherwise. I feel myself trying to be charming, and then I realize I’m obviously trying to be charming, and then I try to be even more charming to make up for the fake charm, and then I’ve basically turned into Martha Stewart and I’m forced to commit an atrocious felony to make up for the falsity of my charm despite the fact that it wasn’t really false, just the kind of charm that should be laughed at because it’s a joke, but no one’s laughing and that’s where the issue lies.

The party is there, and I am there, but we are both winding down, losing steam and alcohol. I am doing my thing, my impulse thing, my imagining thing, my “of course but maybe” thing.

It passes the time.

What if I leap from the theater balcony right now? What if I tongue the homeless man across from me on the subway? What if I sit down on the floor of this party by myself and eat everything on that deli tray, including the cigarettes?

“Please don’t eat anything in that area.” A deep, rich, smooth as bourbon with just the same amount of bite says. It is him, but I don’t yet know it’s him. All I know is it’s a guy who will talk to me, who seemingly read my mind and broke through the awkward social barrier between strangers to make conversation.

He wears his cockiness like an ironic T-shirt, but it fits him better than most. He is the kind of guy who carries himself like he gets laid a lot, a guy who likes sex, a guy who would actually fuck me properly.

I would like to be fucked properly.

I will admit, my interest was first piqued because he was gorgeous. I bet dudes hate him: He looks like the rich-boy villain in an ’80s teen movie – the one who bullies the sensitive misfit, the one who will end up with a pie in the puss, the whipped cream wilting his upturned collar as everyone in the cafeteria cheers. He doesn’t act that way, though.

His name is Bruce.

I love it.

It makes him seem nice, and regular, which he is. When he tells me his name, I say, ‘Now, that’s a real name.’ At which he laughs. His laugh is as gorgeous as he is. I find myself wanting to make him laugh more. A lot more. He has a great smile, a cat’s smile. He should cough out yellow Tweety Bird feathers, the way he smiles at me.

He refills my drink without me having to ask, somehow ferreting out one last cup of the good stuff. He has claimed me, placed a flag in me: “I was here first, he’s mine, _mine._ ” It feels nice, after my recent series of nervous, respectful, sweaty handed men, to be a staked out like a territory.

His eyes are mischievous, his lashes are long. I can picture what he looked like as a boy. We share a taxi home, the streetlights making dizzy shadows and the car speeding as if we’re being chased. I am almost but not quite sitting in his lap, and he is almost but not quite pressed against me.

It is one a.m. when we hit one of New York’s unexplained deadlocks only twelve blocks from my apartment, so we slide out of the taxi into the cold. Bruce starts walking me home, his hand on the small of my back, a true gentleman, despite the something darker that lingers in his eyes.

As we turn the corner, the local bakery is getting its powdered sugar delivered, funneled into the cellar by the barrelful as if it were cement, and we can see nothing but the shadows of the deliverymen in the white, sweet cloud. The street is billowing, I must look shocked and thrilled, and that is the moment, the perfect moment, when Bruce pulls me close and smiles that smile again, like he’s about to eat me whole, as he brushes a too long strand of hair away from my eyes. I run my fingers through his tousled black locks with much less control, and it keeps the smile on his face, so I’m glad I did it. His eyelashes are laced with powder; and before he leans in, before he brands his lips onto mine, he lifts two fingers, brushing my lips like he’s tracing their shape, clearing the sugar off of them so he can taste nothing but _me._


	4. THE BATCAVE: THE DAY OF

“So is Jack going to do one of his anniversary—whaddaya call it?—treasure hunts?” Dick asked, setting up a mini-chess set for Bruce and him to play.

“You mean the forced march designed to point out what an uncaring, oblivious asshole I am?” Bruce replied blithely.

Dick raised his eyebrows, taken aback by how flippant Bruce was acting. “Wow.” Was the only thing he managed to say. Bruce stared at the chessboard, Dick having taken the first move, his own pieces untouched.

“I don’t remember the point.” He murmured.

“You’re supposed to capture the king.” Dick said archly. “What was the clue he got so pissed about last year?”

“When your poor Jack has a cold; this dessert just must be sold.” Bruce recited from memory, a hollow humor in his voice. He moved a pawn one space, prompting a worried look from Dick.

“The answer?” He asked carefully, moving his own pawn in reaction.

“I don’t know.” Bruce admitted, frustrated with himself as he moved another pawn.

“Few years ago—you’d have known.” Dick noted while Bruce glared at the board.

“A few years ago it was fun.”

“What did you get him for year one?” Dick captured a pawn, making Bruce frown, and pause long enough to move his next piece with some strategy.

“The traditional gift is paper, so I got him a sketchbook. Big one. You know how he loves to draw.” Bruce made a vague and dismissive gesture. Dick nodded. “But he only has those little notebooks and he’s always complaining there’s not enough space… So I got him a big one.” He sighed. “Turns out he doesn’t like the big ones because he can’t carry them around… it’s still in the loft. Untouched.”

Dick winced sympathetically.

“What did he get you?”

“A kite.” Bruce smiled with a melancholic air. “I had never flown one before and he… he knew that. So the treasure hunt led me outside Gotham to this wide-open field… kind of a natural park. No trees for miles, just tall grass and shrubs. He had two kites. One black bat for me, and a purple butterfly for him.”

“You hate bats.” Dick frowned.

“I know. And he knows.” Bruce’s smile disappeared faster than clouded breath on a cold, windy day. “He thought it’d be funny.” His eyes drifted and he shrugged minutely. “Maybe it was… I laughed when he showed me. It was cartoonish. Not scary at all, really. He ended up flying it anyway. I took the butterfly. It was easier.”

“What’d he get you last year?” Dick asked, trying to steer Bruce towards less painful memories.

“Year Four: flowers.” Bruce smirked bitterly. “The hunt led me to the rosebush in the mansion backyard. The one by the fountain.”

“Cute… but not a gift, really.” Dick mused.

“He had cut all the flowers off the bush.” Bruce went on, capturing one of Dick’s pieces as he did so. “It was just thorns.”

“Ugh. Creepy.” He shuddered. “And somehow symbolic.”

“It gets better.”

“Oh sweet Jesus.” Dick leaned in, curious despite himself. “Do go on.”

“There was a trail of rose petals back inside, all the way to the bed where he was sprawled out, buck naked-”

“AH! ABORT! LALALALA I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Dick stuck his fingers in his ears, cringing in disgust.

“Oh grow up.” Bruce scoffed.

“Just… talk about something else. What’s the gift for five?”

“Wood.” He scowled.

“What’d you get him?”

“There’s no good gift for wood.” Bruce gave Dick fed up look. He had obviously struggled with the very same question.

“Not to overplay a euphemism, but if last year he gave you himself covered in rose petals.” Dick took a moment to pause and gag exaggeratedly. “Then this year just wrap a bow around your…” He pointedly glanced downward and wiggled his eyebrows. “Ta-da! You’ve got wood!”

This actually manages to cheer Bruce up, making them both laugh at the absurdity of their own discussion. Their mirth is interrupted by the phone ringing, Dick stifling his giggles before picking up.

“The Batcave. Hey Al! What’s… oh. Yep, hold on.” He held out the phone to Bruce with a slightly concerned look badly masked by a too casual grin. “It’s Alfred.”

Bruce failed to notice Dick’s trepidation. “Bet I left my shoes on the stairs…” He muttered before taking the phone. “Alfred. What’s up?” His frown reappeared quickly, and he glanced at Dick, noticing the boy’s concern for the first time. “Oh. That…is weird. OK, thanks.” Hanging up, he grabbed his jacket, already standing and heading for the door. “Jack’s not answering the door or his cell.” He explained.

“He’s probably asleep. Or on the roof.” Dick crossed his arms. “Don’t go running home just cause he’s throwing a fit.”

“I’m just checking up on him.” Bruce called over his shoulder before the door swung shut behind him.


	5. WAYNE'S HOUSE: THE DAY OF

Bruce found Alfred waiting in the lobby with a disgruntled, annoyed, and concerned look on his face. The old man was the only human Bruce knew who could look disapproving and kind at the same time. They got into the elevator side by side, silently, up through floor after floor after floor, until Alfred decided he couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you stayed in the mansion.” He noted bitterly. Bruce gave a long suffering sigh and turned to face his butler, and lifelong friend, dully repeating the same argument they had been through a million times.

“Jack didn’t like the mansion. He wanted privacy. And we both like living in the city rather than on the edge of it.”

“And now he’s gone and barricaded himself in the loft, doing god knows what.” Alfred sniffed. “And you couldn’t even lower yourself to give me a key.”

Bruce refrained from sighing again, despite the innate urge to. “Jack and I decided we would be the only ones with keys.” He intoned. “He likes his privacy.”

“There’s privacy and there’s bloody isolation.” Alfred muttered. Bruce was saved from having to reply when the doors slid open, revealing a short hallway with a door at the end. Taking out his key, he unlocked the door and stepped inside, Alfred close on his heels.

“Jack?”

They made their way around the loft, finding no sign of anyone there besides the ironing board left out with one of Jack’s flamboyant shirts flung across it. Getting worried, Bruce began opening doors, calling out loudly as Alfred trailed further and further behind him.

Turning the corner, he stopped short, Jack’s name stuck in his throat as he tried to process just what he was seeing. The coffee table was overturned, glass shattered and spread across the floor like jagged diamonds.

“Alfred…” Bruce’s voice was a hoarse whisper, but that was all it took to summon the older man to him, a look of shock and confusion appearing on his face that mirrored his own.

“I’m calling the police.”


	6. INSIDE THE LOFT: THE DAY OF

Bruce sat, nervous and twitchy, on a barstool in the kitchen. He was waiting for the police, locked in a coma like state of anxiety, while Alfred made tea, which is what he always did when things fell apart.

After an indeterminable amount of time, the doorbell rang, and after glancing at Bruce, who didn’t move, Alfred went to answer it. He returned with two detectives in tow, both older men, one short and stocky with dark greasy hair, the other of average height, in good shape for anyone, especially someone of his age, with glasses and mustache that matched his brownish hair, streaks of grey making him look both distinguished and overworked.

“Mr. Wayne? I’m Detective Gordon and this is Detective Harvey Bullock.” The thinner man spoke, not unkindly, but professionally, eyes already scanning the room having taken in Bruce’s figure when he first appeared. “We understand there are concerns about a missing person?”

“Yeah.” Bruce wrenched himself out of his stupor with a monumental amount of effort, standing and extending his hand to shake both of the detectives’. “My husband… he’s gone. I came home to… well… let me show you.”

He led the detectives to the living room, the shattered coffee table as it was when he first saw it. Alfred remained behind in the kitchen, the scent of tea drifting through the loft, a perversely comforting smell in contrast to the gut-wrenching scene Bruce now had to face once more.

Gordon bent down, examining the scene with a hard to read expression on his face. Bullock strolled around the room, hands stuffed in his pockets, an easy, almost bored look in his eyes. Bruce took an immediate dislike to him. Reaching into his pocket, Gordon removed a pad of post-its and stood, moving to where Bullock now perused the photographs on the mantle.

“This is him?” He pointed to a photo of Bruce and Jack at a carnival, Jack riding piggyback on Bruce, who’s holding the man’s legs with an bemused expression while Jack holds cotton candy in one hand and a stuffed bear in the other. Bruce’s throat tightened, remembering that day fondly, despite the shitshow their marriage had turned into.

“Yeah.” He finally managed. “That’s him.”

Gordon peeled off a post-it and stuck it by the photos.

“I’m not someone who hits the panic button, but… it’s weird, right?” Bruce asked worriedly. “He never just… disappears. He mostly stays in the loft, really.”

“I can see why. It’s a nice place.” Bullock spoke, a heavy New York accent making his words sound glib. “If I lived here I might not wanna leave either.”

Gordon shot him a look that clearly spoke to a history of dealing with obnoxious comments. “You mind if we look around?” He asked without looking away from his partner.

“Not at all.” Bruce motioned for them to follow him, leading them on a tour through the apartment.

“How long have you two been here?” Gordon asked.

“Two years, this September.” Bruce answered after a pause. “We used to

live outside the city, in my parents old estate, but… Jack wanted to be in the heart of things.”

“City boy, huh?” Bullock nodded, like he knew the feeling well.

“I… yeah. He’s a comic. Was a comic.” Bruce frowned, wondering if that sounded like he thought Jack was dead. He opened his mouth to explain that Jack had given up being a stand-up comedian long before he disappeared, but was interrupted by Bullock.

“Your parents passed away, right?” He asked, earning another glare from Gordon.

“Yes. When I was eight.” Bruce was used to people asking him about his parent’s death. It still hurt, but talking about it didn’t make it any worse.

“Sorry.” Bullock grunted, a silence settling over them briefly before he shattered it once more. “What do you two do now? For work.”

“Well, my parent’s company pays most of the bills, but I also own The Batcave with my adopted son, Dick.”

“The Batcave.” Gordon nodded. “Interesting name.”

“Jack thought of it.” Bruce swallowed thickly. “I’m afraid of bats. He… uh… he thought it was funny.”

Bullock and Gordon shared a look that Bruce hoped wasn’t too judgemental. Jack and his relationship was… complicated. It had been from the start, and it hadn’t simplified over time.

They make their way to the bedroom, Bruce letting Gordon and Bullock in before him and praying that Jack hadn’t let out anything too… risqué. Sure, their relationship was complicated, and so was the sex, but that was actually a good thing. At least it was in Bruce’s mind. Jack agreed whole heartedly, but outsiders… might not.

Luckily, the bedroom seemed relatively clean. Gordon’s attention was drawn to the ironing board, a purple paisley button down slung over it with the iron turned on and left out.

“Date night?” Bullock asked as Gordon unplugged the iron and stuck a post-it next to the shirt.

“It’s our anniversary.” Bruce mumbled, turning to leave the bedroom and move downstairs. Bullock followed, but Gordon lingered behind, noticing three small splashes of red by the baseboard. He stuck another post-it by the stain before following the other two men downstairs.

They entered Jack’s office, or “work space” as he liked to call it. Bruce mostly avoided mentioning it at all, or entering the room, or going near it. It looked like a combination of a war torn country and the office from A Beautiful Mind.

“Wow.” Gordon looked around at the eclectic mess and multiple project scattered around the floor, desk, walls, and ceiling.

“Yeah.” Bruce shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “So should I be concer-”

“I remember these.” Bullock cut him off, pointing to the newspaper articles taped to the wall. The pictures in them showed various graffiti pieces, or sculpture type performance art, all with headlines about how they’d shown up out of nowhere, overnight, with no explanation. “I remember these!” Bullock repeated, squinting at them, then looking around suspiciously at the mess. “Wait… Your husband is the Joker?”


	7. Diary Entry II

Well, well, well. Guess who’s back? Bruce Wayne, Brooklyn party boy, sugar-cloud kisser, disappearing act. Almost as good as Houdini! But after eight months, two weeks, couple of days, with no word, he’s not at the bottom of a river, trapped in trunk, dead and bloated. Oh no. He’s well and alive, he just lost my phone number. His cell was out of juice, so he’d written it on a stickie. Then he’d tucked the stickie into his jeans pocket and apparently his butler (no lie) put the jeans in the washer, and it turned the stickie into a piece of cyclone-shaped pulp. He tried to unravel it but could only see a 3 and an 8. (He said.) And then work clobbered him and suddenly it was March and too embarrassingly late to try to find me. (He said.) Of course I was angry. I had been angry. But now I’m not. (I think)

 

Today. Gusty September winds. The kind of day where you can’t wear a winter coat because it’s not really that cold, but your sweater or jacket or what have you is too thin, and you want to put on a scarf, but it’ll make your neck itch and end up as a makeshift tissue for your runny nose anyway. I was wandering the city, contemplating the things one contemplates on a day like today, when a shadow made itself known. I corner-eyed the intruder, wondering if I’d have to use some tooth and nail persuasion, and realized who it was.

 

It was him.

 

The boy in ‘I met a boy!’

 

I didn’t break my stride, just turned to him and said ‘Well, you certainly take your time about it, don’t you, Bruce?’

 

I could’ve told him to fuck off for leaving me hanging. Asked him who he was, passive aggressively. Or even ignored him and walked away. But… his pretty baby blue eyes and grinning face and cheeks made rosy red from the winter chill punched me right in the gut. So I smiled and acted playful and forgave the prodigal son for his transgressions.

 

And now we’re together. Together, together. It was that easy. It’s interesting, the timing. Propitious, if you will. (Have fun looking that up.) Just last night was my debut art piece, one not really asked for by anyone in particular, and not in any gallery per say, but still. It happened and I did it and now Brucie-boy is back in my life and things are going juuuust swell. I wonder if he’s seen the headlines. I wonder what he thinks of my art.

 

Most people don’t “get” me. They’re baffled by my existence. A smart, pretty, nice boy like me, with so many strange interests and enthusiasms, a weird not-job, a non-existent family. And let’s say it: money. They knit their eyebrows and try to think of boxes they can stuff me in, categorize me with neat little words and labels before packing me away and out of site, but we all know there’s no way to explain my particular “quirks” and I know that they not-so-secretly think there’s something really wrong with me, something hidden away beneath my love for argyle socks and Marx Brothers movies. Something that makes me unsatisfiable, unsatisfying. Destined to be Alone Forever.

 

(Sidebar/soliloquy for a moment: this is also why I’ve never been set up much. I’ve only been on one blind date, and the girl was as boring and distasteful as baking soda toothpaste. That’s honestly what put me off women for a while. Call me high maintenance if you want, but I’d prefer to be swept off my feet than have to do the sweeping myself.)

 

Give me a man with a little fight in him! A man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.) I’ve gone to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. I’ve gone on dates with men who are nice and good-looking and smart – perfect-on-paper men who make me feel like I’m in a foreign land, trying to explain myself, trying to make myself known. Because isn’t that the point of every relationship? To be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. He really gets me. Isn’t that the simple magic phrase? So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man – the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. Or maybe he understands that you’ve made a witty remark but, unsure of what to do with it, he holds it in his hand like some bit of conversational phlegm he will wipe away later. You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognize each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think: “That was fine.” And your life is a long line of fine.

 

And then you run into Bruce Wayne on Seventh Avenue and pow, you are known, you are recognized, the both of you. You both find the exact same things worth remembering. You have the same rhythm. Click. You just know each other. All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours. And it’s so far beyond fine that you know you can never go back to fine. That fast. You think: Oh. Here's the rest of my life. It’s finally arrived.


	8. SEPTEMBER 8TH: BEFORE

 

Bruce was happy for Jack, really, he was, but the PR surrounding the man’s controversial alter-ego vandal known as “The Joker” by the tabloids was a nightmare. When he suggested holding a press conference due to his growing fame, Bruce had suggested using the Batcave as a venue. Jack had enthusiastically grabbed onto the idea, despite Bruce meaning it more sarcastically than sincerely.

Now, the night of the big reveal, the bar had been closed to the public with only a few select reporters allowed inside. Jack had forbidden any cameras, forcing journalists to go through airport level security just to gain entrance. They were only allowed a pen and paper to take notes. Nothing more. Bruce had thought it was all a publicity stunt before he had seen how seriously Jack was taking things. The man really didn’t want to be thrust into the public gaze. At least, not unless it was on his own terms.

“I know you’ve technically broken the law, but I don’t think they’ll actually arrest you. Your art is too popular.” Bruce murmured to Jack, trying not to look uncomfortable or nervous despite feeling both strongly. “Don’t you think this is overkill?”

“Yeah but you don’t know they won’t.” Jack countered. “And no, I don’t. Even if they can’t take pictures, they can still describe me, or hell, even draw me if they’re that determined.”

“Why not wear a mask, then? Or hire a ghost writer… artist type person?” Bruce sighed.

“Because a mask is uncomfortable and a ghost artist is stupid.” Jack put out his arm, stopping Bruce in his tracks before moving to stand in front of the man. “You have a problem with me wearing makeup?” Has said archly.

Bruce paused, looking down at the smaller man with a bemused expression on his face. “Not necessarily.” He replied slowly. “I know you like to wear makeup, but usually it’s just… eyeliner, or some lipstick or maybe concealer. This…” He gestured to Jack’s face. “Is just a little more than usual.”

Jack’s eyes were rimmed in dark black, his face a blended mask of white foundation that made it look eerily natural despite it being a completely unnatural color. His lips, by contrast, were a bright and bloody red, lipstick neatly applied to define his cupid’s bow pout with, impressively, no smears or mistakes. To make matters worse, or rather, to complete the visage, his hair was slicked back and colored a vibrant green that he assured Bruce would wash out, but that Bruce wasn’t entirely convinced would.

“That’s the point. I’m unrecognizable.” Jack smiled, an eerie thing to watch given his current appearance. “And it fits in with my persona.”

“The Joker.” Bruce nodded flatly. “I guess.”

Jack stands on tiptoe, pressing a kiss to Bruce’s cheek affectionately and leaving behind the perfect outlline of his mouth in red lipstick.

“Interview time.” He murmured. “Wish me luck.

Jack strolled over to a flock of reporters, pulling up a chair to a large table and letting them slide in the curved booth across from him. Bruce followed after a moment’s pause, hanging back and watching, arms folded, eyes tense.

“I’m curious about the inspiration behind your pieces. The story behind each one. What inspired you?” A bubble brunette with her hair in an artfully messy bun chirped. Bruce noticed she was wearing overalls and a crop top and immediately decided to get Jack a similar outfit. He seemed the type to appreciate overalls coming back into style. Or wear them anyway. “I mean, they’re so…” She searched for words, lips pursed. “Eclectic!”

“-and this… underground party, opening yourself up to the press while keeping everything under wraps…” Another reporter butted in, blonde, wearing a pantsuit with Diane Keaton hair.

“It’s all very suspicious.” A skinny male with acne marks and hipster glasses leaned in, squinting at Jack like he was trying to see beneath the makeup.

“My art doesn’t have a reason.” Jack laughed, that screechy, hyena with a sore throat noise that Bruce could never get used to, or grow tired of. “I do it cause I want to.”

“Pure aesthetic? No commentary at all?” The brunette frowned.

“Well… no.” Jack sat back, loose limbed and sprawled out like a marionette without strings. “There’s a meaning in everything, but that doesn’t mean there’s a reason.”

The reporters looked confused. Bruce wanted to laugh. This was pure Jack, in his element. Dressed up like a clown in the mafia, confusing hipster bloggers and uptight journalists alike with his creative chaos theory.

“Maybe if we start with your first sculpture.” The blonde offered hesitantly. “The one in the old ACE chemical plant.”

Jack made a humming noise then smacked his lips. “Mmhmm. What do you wanna know about it?”

“Well… why?” Acne-boy interjected.

“Why not?” Jack countered, only to be met with blank stares once more. “No? Ok… let me start with the process, then.” He sat up, leaning forward and putting his arms on the table, slightly hunched like he was about to tell a secret. The reporters leaned in too, reflexively, like it was a conditioned response.

“I knew how to get in because I had some contacts on the inside.” Jack half lied. Bruce knew he used to work there, but revealing that might compromise his identity. “So I went at night. No security. It’s an old place, nothing really valuable, so nothing to guard, right?” His eyes flicked upwards, noticing that Bruce had disappeared off somewhere else. A flash of annoyance appeared in his eyes before being swept away by the memory of his endeavor.

“There was this huge vat of chemicals, just sitting there, open to anyone. I climbed up on a catwalk and… well I noticed a bar had rusted almost all the way through. So… so I broke it.” He laughed, not as manically as usual, more as a way to break up the story, keep things interesting. A narrative choice instead of a reaction to amusement.

“Probably did them a favor. Someone could’ve fallen in. Sued the company.” Jack flapped his hand, painted white wrist visible between the purple glove and patterned shirt cuff. “So the walkway swung free…”

“How’d you manage to safely break it?” Blondie interrupted him, and was met with an incredulous stare.

“I jumped up and down until it broke.” He replied flatly. The reporters gaped at him in silent disbelief. Overalls looked like she was going to protest until he broke the silence, continuing his story. “Anyway, it swung free and ended up riiight in the vat. Over it kind of, with the end dipped in.” He held his arm at a slant to the table, like a ramp, demonstrating how the walkway looked. “Like a slide. So I took this Halloween skeleton, the kind you find at weird niche stores, entirely fake but veeeery realistic, something that wouldn’t melt in the chemicals but didn’t look cheap either, and I stuck it in the vat with it’s hand bone… arm bone… wrist joint…” He motioned to his hand. “Caught in the grate so it looked like the guy had died trying to climb out. I dismantled the rest, though, cause despite what movie props will tell you, skeletons don’t stay together after the skin and joints rot off. So just the arm bone and some finger bones are caught in the grate and the rest is swirling around in the chemicals. For my coup de grace, I dumped a bunch of playing cards in the vat.”

“All the same card.” Acne-boy blurted.

“Right.” Jack looked a little peeved that his punch line had been stepped on. “All the same _type_ of card, but from different decks.” He paused for dramatic effect, eyes sliding around the room, daring anyone to interrupt him again. “The Joker.”

“Which is how you got your name.” Overalls looked proud of herself despite Jack’s withering eyeroll that accompanied her comment.

“Yup.” He popped his lips in emphasis. “The first workers noticed the broken walkway and then they had to drain the vat to fix it, cause it had been soaking in the mess for a few hours and was all corroded and rusty and dangerous at that point, and when they drain it they find this skeleton in pieces at the bottom, arm still stuck in the grate, and playing cards littered around it, so they think someone’s d-e-a-d from falling in.” Jack laughed despite the queasy expression on some of the reporter’s faces.

“They call the cops, the cops know something’s up cause the cards are all the same, and if the guy had just fallen in with a deck of cards in his pocket, they’d be different, aaand.” He held up his, calling for attention with both pointer fingers raised. “The guy’s clothes weren’t there. So if the cards survived the clothes would’ve and a streaker dying in a factory accident is a bit too scripted to be true. So they analyze the bones and find out it’s fake but at this point the media’s going nuts over some ‘playing card killer’ going around, and then someone comes up with the genius name ‘The Joker’ and the rest is history.”

“Right.” Blondie nods slowly, the other reporters scribbling furiously. “But… why? Why do any of that?”

“I thought it’d be funny.” Jack sighed. “You’re still missing the point.”

“Which is?” Overalls asked dryly.

“There is no point.” Jack muttered, starting to look annoyed.

“You’re just doing this for the attention?” Acne-boy butted in, tone a mix between disbelief and wonder.

“No. If I did it for attention I wouldn’t have an issue with my face being everywhere, but I’m obviously taking steps to avoid the public eye, hm?” Jack pointed out. “You’re still not getting it. It’s all a joke. One big, black, pointless joke. It’s all a gag!” He spread his arms, waiting for a reaction and getting none. Disappointed, he let them drop, a frowning sneer appearing on his painted features. “Why can’t any of you see the funny side?”

“I have a few questions.” Bruce stepped forward, prompting Jack’s head to snap up in confusion.

Some of his frown disappeared, but he regarded Bruce warily, not quite sure what the man’s game was. They had agreed that Bruce was allowed to come, seeing as it was his bar, as long as he kept a bit of distance between him and “The Joker.” It wouldn’t do for him to be recognized and accosted just because of his famous, playboy boyfriend. Jack had assumed that Bruce had left because of to this agreement, but his confusion at the man’s reappearance turned to interest when he noticed the man was wearing a disguise of sorts.

He had acquired a pair of mirrored sunglasses, from where, Jack wasn’t quite sure, the kind of old aviator type that came from Top Gun. His usually artfully messy hair was combed to the side, almost greasy looking, though Jack was sure it was only gel. On top of that, his usual well-tailored, clean-cut, dark suit had been replaced by a gaudy checked green coat, clashing terrifically against a yellow shirt with black stripes and an orange tie. The entire ensemble was tied together by the fact that Bruce hadn’t shaved since yesterday morning, giving him just enough stubble to give him a street-toughened look.

He sat next to Jack, sliding into the booth adjacent to him, forcing the other reporters to shift over and prompting some annoyed grumbling.

“Matches Malone, from the New Frontiersman.” Bruce drawled, accent thickly New York, disguising his voice along with the rest of his appearance. Even his posture was different, slouched and untrained in an almost lewd sense. Had Jack not known every inch of him in both the biblical and aesthetic sense, he wouldn’t have recognized him in the slightest.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Jack’s grin felt like it was going to split his face in half.

“Right, yeah, but I’m here in a strictly journalistic capacity.” Bruce took a box of matches out of his pocket, the logo marking them as the ones in a bowl by the cash register, and stuck one in his mouth like a toothpick, the side that could be lit sticking out while the side you held clamped between his teeth.

Jack looked entirely entertained and anticipatory. He couldn’t wait to see where this was going.

“Mr. Joker, you’ve had the pleasure of dating Mr. Matches Malone for how long?” Bruce pulled out a pad Jack recognized as one Dick used for taking orders, and a pencil that looked like it’s intended use was keeping golf scores. Blue eyes peeked out from the mirrored shades, meeting green ones in a private joke.

“Two magical years.” Jack answered as the reporters tried to comprehend what exactly was going on.

“Is it true that during the course of your relationship, you have performed such gracious gestures as…” He glanced at the obviously blank pad like he was checking notes. “Not correcting Mr. Malone when he tried to pronounce ‘grandiose’ as ‘grand-whah’.”

“He thought it was French.” Jack grinned.

“Or when he admitted to having never driven a car himself before?” Bruce countered.

“Lots of people in the city don’t drive.” He shrugged, folding his hands behind his head relatedly.

“Touché.”

“There’s the French again.” Jack wiggled his eyebrows.

Bruce laughed and continued. “You also manage such spectacular feats like putting up with Mr. Malone’s grandfather singing show tunes while he cooks. Loudly. And off key.”

“For twenty five years I’ve washed your clothes…” Jack crooned blithely.

“You also bought Mr. Malone his first hot dog, didn’t you?”

“And introduced him to cheeze whiz.” Jack nodded.

“Mr. Joker.” Bruce’s tone was dripping with exaggerated astonishment. “You are beyond amazing. You are incredibly smart but entirely unsnobby. You make me laugh harder than I ever thought possible. You surprise me. You challenge me.” He paused, glancing at his non-existent notes again and scribbling something on the pad for show. “And, fun fact for our readers, you have a truly magnificent ass.”

Jack nearly choked on his own tongue, arms falling from his head to smack the table as he cackled loudly. The other reporters looked genuinely uncomfortable at this point, wondering if they could leave without causing a bigger scene.

“However my colleagues inform me that as yet you are not married.” Bruce frowned, like such a thing couldn’t be true.

“I am not.” Jack sniffed, getting a tenuous grip on his laughter.

“Isn’t it time we fixed that?” He asked softly, voice almost but not quite his own. Before Jack could say anything, he turned the pad around, revealing the scribbled words “will you marry me?” in Bruce’s always recognizably neat scrawl.

Jack answered by launching himself into his arms and kissing him deeply enough that had he not sealed his facepaint, Bruce would have been as white as a sheet.


	9. Lipstick and Blood Look Eerily Similar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sort of proposal honeymoon where the couple celebrates being engaged with roleplay.

“Let’s go to a hotel.” Jack murmured, straddling Bruce’s lap in the back of a taxi while the driver tried not to stare. “I’m not in the mood to make small talk with Jeeves.”

“ _Alfred_ is probably asleep by now.” Bruce tilted his head to peer at Jack over the rims of his sunglasses.

“Mmhm.” Jack nipped at Bruce’s unshaven jaw, pulling a quiet but strained noise from the other man. “Hotel.”

“Fine.” Bruce rolled his eyes before slipping back into his persona’s accent and addressing the cab driver. “Hey buddy, what’s the nearest hotel to here?”

“Hotel or motel?” The driver asked, risking a glance in the mirror before quickly refocusing on the street.

“Motel.” Jack blurted with a lipstick smeared grin. Bruce arched an eyebrow at this, fixing Jack with a curious look. “C’mon, Matches. No need to blow your hard earned cash on a ritzy place just to impress me.” He giggled. “I already said yes.” Leaning in, he tugged at Bruce’s earlobe with his teeth before purring softly. “Besides… I’m not a high class kinda boy… am I?”

Bruce let out a strangled noise, louder than before, and nodded, hands slipping from their resting place on Jack’s waist to roughly grope his ass instead.

“Lucky for you I’m not a high class kinda man.” He growled, still using Matches’ voice and thoroughly enjoying Jack’s reaction to his roughened baritone.

By the time the cab pulled over in front of a less than reputable motel, Bruce was nearly crazy with lust, and Jack seemed to have drifted past that point a while before. Tossing a handful of bills at the driver, Bruce managed to lurch out of the cab, pulling Jack out behind him and towards the main office, neither of them bothering to shut the door behind them.

They made it into the dingy office, hearing the cab driver yell swears after them, getting out to shut the door they had left open in their rush to get inside. Bruce laid some money on the desk of the likely-half-drunk attendant who grabbed a key and slid it to them without looking up from his phone. Jack continued to giggle and pull at Bruce’s clothes even as they made their way back outside and found the door to the room they had rented.

Jack leaned against the door once they had found it, tugging Bruce into another messy kiss as the man tried to blindly stuff the key into the lock and open the door. Getting impatient, or maybe just having too much fun, Jack broke the kiss and slid to his knees, leaving Bruce panting and fighting the urge to yank Jack up by his hair and force their lips together.

Instead he continued trying to unlock the door, trying to ignore Jack’s wandering hands as they untucked his shirt and pulled at his belt, fingers brushing his clothed erection.

“Watch it, kid.” Bruce growled, risking a glance downward and immediately regretting it, given that his brain short-circuited at the image of Jack, pale skinned and red lipped, green eyes made brighter by the black rimming them coupled with lust, pulling out his cock with an expression akin to that of a kid on Christmas morning.

Letting out a low groan, Bruce steadied himself by resting his forearm against the peeling paint of the motel door, head curved down to keep watching Jack as he ran his tongue up the length of Bruce’s now fully hardened cock.

“Someone might see.” Bruce pointed out, voice hoarse, still using Matches’ accent.

Jack simply hummed and swirled his tongue around the tip of Bruce’s cock before taking the head into his mouth and sucking hard, causing the other man to swear loudly, grab a fistful of Jack’s hair, and yank his head back violently.

Jack let out a moan, the sound only made louder when Bruce’s cock slipped free of his mouth. He didn’t struggle against Bruce’s grip in the slightest, almost leaning into his touch, encouraging the rough treatment.

The respite from Jack’s ministrations allowed Bruce to unlock the door, hauling the other man to his feet and pushing him inside before slamming the door behind him.

They were left in near total darkness, Bruce’s eyes adjusting slowly to the dim room, the only source of light streaming through a dirt crusted window from the half broken streetlamp outside.

“Matches.” Jack moaned rawly, causing Bruce’s dick to pulse with need.

“Get on the bed.” He ordered lowly, able to make out the dim shape of a lumpy motel mattress up against the wall along with Jack’s prone figure sprawled on the floor.

Shedding his jacket as he scrambled to obey, Jack loosened his tie and cast it aside along with his waistcoat. Flopping onto the mattress, he tugged his boots off, followed by his socks, leaving him only in his purple leather gloves, a rumpled and half-tucked button down and purple pants, cock straining against the vibrant fabric in a blatantly obvious bulge.

“You’re gagging for it, ain’t you?” Bruce hummed, tugging off his hacket and dropping it as he made his way to the bed. His sunglasses were next, almost forgotten in the heat of the moment, then his tie as he kicked off his shoes and toed his socks off. Jack replied by moaning and stuffing his hand down his pants to wrap around his own arousal.

“Ah-ah.” Bruce slid onto the bed, planting his knees on either side of Jack’s calves and curling his hand around the other’s wrist in a slightly too hard grip. “No touching unless I say.”

Jack let out a beautifully pitiful whimper, giving a token struggle and arching his hips upwards in a desperate bid for friction. Bruce took both his wrists in one hand, grabbing Jack’s discarded tie and looping it around them, then the headboard, tying it in a hopefully secure knot.

That done, Bruce took his time undressing completely, ignoring Jack’s soft curses and the thumping of the headboard against the wall as he tried to free his hands. Once he was fully naked, he found his jacket and pulled out the lube he’d stashed in the pocket earlier that night. Seeing this, Jack became compliant, relaxing against the mattress but continuing to follow Bruce’s movements sharply.

In the shadowed light of the room, Bruce could make out the smears of lipstick across Jok... Jack’s face. Other than that, his makeup was as pristine as ever, like the man really did have bone white skin. For some reason, this made the entire thing more erotic, and Bruce decided to leave Jack’s shirt, pants, and gloves on, solely on a whim.

He still needed access, though, so he rooted through Jack’s pockets until he found the switchblade the man always kept on him. Using his hand, and his opposite shoulder, he spread Jack’s legs and pushed them up until his knees were almost pressed to his ribs. Then he took the blade and cut a strip up the seam of Jack’s pants, effectively exposing the man’s ass without needing to do so much as unbutton his pants.

“Fuck.” Jack groaned, eyes rolling back in his head. “You owe me a new suit.”

“No problem.” Bruce laughed. “Purple can’t be too expensive, huh?”

“It, ah… it wasn’t cheap.” Jack giggled. “You oughta know. You bought it in the first place.”

“Not like I keep track of all the shit you charge to my account.” Bruce muttered, still in character despite the blurred lines of reality and roleplay.

“Nough sweet talk.” Jack arched his hips, further exposing himself to the other man. “Fuck me.”

“You don’t tell me what to do, Joker.” Bruce half-snarled, bending Jack’s legs even further so that he could reach his mouth, kissing him until he tasted blood. Whether it was his or not… he couldn’t care less.

Jack whimpered into the kiss, prompting Bruce to open the lube and drizzle it onto his fingers, making a huge mess in the process, but it was a seedy motel, so Bruce felt it only appropriate to take advantage of the opportunity to be reckless.

Pulling back from the kiss, Bruce pressed two fingers into Jack, eyes following his own movements as he breached his fiancé with finesse, but without bothering to be gentle.

“Matches.” Jack swore through gritted teeth, making Bruce strangely proud. He looked so helpless like this, and Jack was never helpless. More often than not, he was the one on top during their time in the bedroom. Well… technically on top. Meaning he stretched himself while Bruce watched, occasionally allowed to touch or kiss some part of him, and then rode the playboy at his own pace until he came.

If Bruce hadn’t orgasmed by then he’d simply sink down all the way and clench around Bruce’s cock until the man finished.

Sometimes Jack even tied him down. Sometimes it was just for a blowjob. Bruce liked it, really. Liked not having to worry about if Jack was getting off. Liked not having to be in control for once in his life. Liked being able to just sit back and watch and enjoy the sight of Jack’s lean and golden-pale body stretched out above him, eyes either shut in concentrated bliss or open and fixed on his, like a cat on it’s prey. Liked seeing his cock disappear into Jack’s tight, warm body as his muscles coiled and relaxed with every shift up or down. Especially liked being told, in half-whispered moans, where to touch or kiss or grab or bite. Liked then seeing Jack’s reaction when he obeyed.

But this… turning the tables and having _The Joker_ at his mercy, undone and desperate while Bruce remained somewhat composed and in charge… this was an entirely different type of arousal. An entirely different flavor of lust.

Matches liked being in control. Matches liked grabbing Joker hard enough to bruise, watching the cherry slick lips part in a gasp as Joker tried vainly to squirm close to some sort of pleasure or stimulation. Matches liked twisting his fingers roughly inside of Joker’s always tight heat and coaxing forth an involuntary mewl as he found the man’s prostate time and time again with just the right amount of burning, painful stretch that he was left teetering on the brink of coming instead of crashing down the other side. Matches liked denying him that final thrust. Matches liked making him wait, because, really, he was going to come first this time. He was going to be the one to drive Joker over the edge... But only when he felt like it.

“Matches.” Joker gasped again, pleadingly, unable to form an actual request.

“Yeah?” Matches grinned, pressing in another finger beside the first two and causing Joker’s body to shake and tense, clenching tightly around the sudden intrusion, lips parted but silent, like the air had escaped from his lungs.

“Fuck.” He finally gasped, head thrown back and spine arched off the mattress.

“If you say so.” Matches shrugged, glimmeringly evil intent shining in his eyes.

He pulled his fingers out, causing Joker’s body to flop back limply onto the bed, before he tucked his arms into the crook of Joker’s knees and planted his hands on the mattress, bending him in half until his legs were over Matches’ shoulders, his knees by his own head.

“Always liked how bendy you were.” He chuckled shifting his hips until he felt the head of his cock brush Joker’s stretched and slickened hole. “Deep breath, baby.”

Matches had a moment to enjoy how wide Joker’s eyes open at being called “baby”. The next moment, he was pushing into him, one long, not quite slow stroke, until his hips were pressed against the soft fabric of the other man’s thoroughly ruined pants.

“Good boy.” He murmured, hearing how strained his own voice sounded, but managing to not care in the slightest. Joker keened beautifully in response, toes curling as he tried to adjust to being filled so completely. He slid his hand under Joker’s patterned shirt to feel his ribs expand and collapse with every shaking breath, his heartbeat like a broken metronome stuck on the highest setting.

Matches only waited long enough for Joker’s eyes to open and meet his before pulling halfway out and then pushing back in with a soft grunt, earning an over stimulated noise of pleasure from the man beneath him. He repeated the process, pulling out a bit more before snapping his hips forward each time until he was fucking Joker with the entire length of his cock, only the head staying inside of him to keep him open and willing.

Joker had been making ragged and desperate sounds for a while now, which only encouraged Matches to go further, harder, and rougher. He had become so intent on fucking the man into the mattress, he didn’t notice when Joker’s body twisted strangely. Matches only figured out that he had freed his hands from the makeshift restraints when he felt leather gloved fingers card through his gelled back hair before gripping it tightly.

“Fuck.” He gritted out, eyes flicking up to confirm that Joker had indeed untied himself. “Tricky little thing, huh?”

Joker giggled and rolled his hips, somehow spreading his legs even further than before, causing Matches’ pace to stutter before picking back up again even harsher than before.

“Don’t give what you can’t take, Matches.” Joker tsked, voice still sounding wrecked, which was a small comfort to the other man, given that the clown had an ear to ear grin on instead of the gasping, pleading expression he had before.

“Watch it or I’ll gag you.” Matches snarled, changing the angle of his thrusts just so he could vindictively watch in pleasure as Joker’s eyes rolled back into his head, completely involuntarily.

“Oh Matches, baby, don’t make promises you won’t keep.” Joker licked his lips, further ruining his now obscenely smeared lipstick.

With a wordless growl, Matches pulled out of Joker and flipped him in one practiced move. Whether or not he articulated it as Bruce, he liked being bigger than Joker. Or Jack, rather. Both of them. The man wasn’t small, really, but he was wiry, seemingly made up of nothing but sinew and bone. This meant that Bruce, or Matches, or whoever he was at the moment, could toss Joker (Jack… whoever…) around like a sack of flour.

Benefits of being a billionaire included owning a gym and having the time to workout whenever he wanted. Of course, it wasn’t often that Jack (Joker) let Bruce (Matches) toss him around, made the current moment of payout all the sweeter.

Something feral and possessive and animalistic roared inside Matches, seeing Joker push himself off his stomach and onto his hands and elbows, back curved like he was an animal presenting to his mate, asking to be taken. Never one to deny Joker anything, Matches curled himself around the smaller man, pressing back into him and wrapping his arms around his narrow waist and chest, pulling him up onto just his knees and holding him there as he fucked him.

Joker laid one hand over Matches’ around his stomach, the other going back to grab his hair once more, pulling him in as he tilted his head back for a surprisingly gentle and measured kiss. Then Matches brought his head down to nuzzle against the other’s jaw, trailing open mouthed kisses and bites until he reached the junction of his neck and shoulder where he bit down hard enough to bruise.

Joker’s hips snapped upwards, his hard and dripping cock clearly outlined through his pants and entirely visible to Matches in this position.

“Like that, huh?” He growled, earning a breathless laugh and an enthusiastic nod.

“Harder.” Joker demanded, and Matches didn’t know if he meant the biting or the fucking, so he did both. From the noises that coaxed from Joker, he did the right thing.

“Gonna… fuck… gonna come.” He warned him hoarsely, at which Matches reached down, slipping his hand into Joker’s pants, fingers curling around the base of his cock and squeezing harshly, cutting off his orgasm and earning a frustrated whine.

“Not till I say.” Matches breathed, continuing to piston his hips in and out of Joker’s divinely perfect ass.

“Sadist.” Joker muttered, tugging at Matches hair in a sort of retaliation before arching his back as much as possible so he could press his lips to Matches’ neck and bite down hard. Much harder than he had been bitten, hard enough to break the skin and stain his faded purple shirt with rivulets of blood.

“Takes one to know one.” Matches cursed at the burning pain in his neck, tilting his head to the side in a contrasting display of encouragement. Joker took this as permission to bite down again, marking another place on his lover and causing more blood to flow, which he then licked up like a man dying of thirst would capture rain on his tongue.

That was all it took for Matches to come, pushing Joker back down onto all fours, and then more, curling his fist into the green hair and practically jamming his head into the pillows. Joker took it without complaint, pliantly waiting to be let up as the aftershocks of Matches’ orgasm rolled through him.

When the grip on his head loosened, Matches rolling off to flop onto the mattress beside Joker, the clown sat back on his heels, still in his shirt and pants, both ripped and stained with various fluids, cock still as hard as ever, makeup surprisingly still intact.

“C’mere.” Matches rumbled, patting his thighs. With a grin, Joker moved to straddle him, hands drifting along Matches’ body, exploring the hardened planes and ridges he knew so well. Matches undid his pants, tugging them down along with Joker’s underwear so his cock bobbed free, nearly pressing against his abdomen, flushed and wet with precum. Wrapping a hand around the shaft, he watched Joker sigh in pleasure and relief as he stroked him off.

It only took a few seconds of his skilled administration before Joker came, a name on his lips that wasn’t quite Bruce or Matches, but a nearly wordless blend of the two. Splatters of come hit Matches’ own chest and the Joker’s as well, which bothered neither of them in the slightest.

Leaning down, Joker kissed Matches, long and slow, letting the vestiges of their game fade in the familiar and tender press of lips.

“That was interesting.” Bruce murmured one they had broken apart, Jack half curled up on his chest, kissing at the bloody wounds on his neck.

“Mmhmm.” He agreed. “You owe me for these.” Jack changed the subject as if it had never been something worth discussing in the first place, hand coming up to brush the marks he had been kissing a moment before.

“Want me to pay you back now?” Bruce asked with a grin.

“Mmhmm.” Jack repeated, offering his neck to the other man with an easy sort of trust.

Bruce tangled his hand in Jack’s hair, gently this time, not like the rough yanking that he had done as Matches. Pulling the man close, he kissed a spot on his neck where it curved to meet his back, then bit down with just enough force to break the skin.

It wasn’t quite as hard as Joker had bitten him, and when he pulled back, he knew the mark wasn’t as deep or as bloody, but Jack made a satisfied purring noise, touching the mark gently, then looking at the red stain on his gloves with half-asleep but fascinated eyes.

“I love you, Bruce.” He rolled to the side, turning so his back was to the other man.

“I love you, Jack.” Bruce took this cue to wrap his arms around Jack’s body, curling around him like a blanket.

“I love Matches too.” Jack mumbled.

“And I love the Joker.” Bruce smiled, feeling an unexplainable twist in his gut as he watched the pale and painted face of his fiancé drift into sleep.


	10. JULY 5TH: GOTHAM COUNTY POLICE DEPARTMENT

 

Bruce sat in a holding pen in the Gotham County Police Department, being watched from the other side of two-way glass by Bullock and Gordon. He was fiddling with his smartphone, which he usually did when he was nervous, waiting to answer questions.

Gordon stared for a moment longer before breaking the silence, addressing Bullock without actually looking at him like he often did.

“I remember him, you know? From when he was little. Right after his parents died.” He murmured. “Cute kid. Straight out of a cereal commercial. But with this sadness in his eyes…” Pausing, he contemplated Bruce’s image now, as if comparing him to the memory of the small, newly orphaned boy, all those years ago. “Can’t really blame him, huh?”

Bullock gave a bored grunt. “Unless his eyes also have the whereabouts of his husband, I don’t think they matter all much.

Gordon sighed, nodding resignedly. “If he doesn’t show up… this could get out of hand. Fast.”

“Cause he’s some nutball vandal?” Bullock snorted.

“You ever watch those those tabloid crime shows?” Gordon countered.

“Sure. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Think about it. Celebrity couple, husband goes missing on their anniversary, turns out he’s a highly controversial underground artist living a double life, whose sculptures have been the focal point of media attention since he made his first debut.”

Bullock thought this over, brow crumpled into a frown. “Shit.”

“We’re the cops of the city with the highest crime rate in America. This is going to turn into a media tornado if we don’t do our jobs damn well. Stay on your toes.”

With that he entered the room, sitting across from Bruce with a neutral but open expression.

“Now, normally, we wouldn’t treat this as a missing persons case right off the bat. We’d tell you to call back in 24 hours if your husband was still missing. But given the scene in the house and given our spike in violent crime of late…” Gordon sighed. “As of usual… we’re going to take this very, very seriously.”

Bruce nodded emphatically. “OK. Good.”

“We have the forensics team over at your loft. Do you have somewhere else to stay?”

“Yeah. My parent’s place.”

“Anyone else there?” Gordon asked pointedly.

“My ward and my butler.”

“Good.” He made a note on a notepad and continued. “We’re tracking Jack’s phone and credit cards. We’ll organize searches, put up flyers. Run a news story.”

“A news story?” Bruce frowned, looking upset.

“It’s the best way to get the word out.” Gordon paused. “You want to get the word out, right?”

“Yeah… I mean, of course, it’s just…” Bruce sighed, running his hands through his already messy hair.

“Time is of the essence in these cases.” He prompted.

“I know.” Bruce’s voice was softer than before, his gaze distant. “Jack just… liked his privacy.” Silence prevailed for a moment before Bullock shattered it by entering noisily through the same door Gordon had before.

“Wayne, I’m here to remind you that you can call a lawyer if you want.” His eyes flicked from Gordon to Bruce and back again, blatantly gauging both of their reactions.

“No. It’s fine.” He shook his head, not meeting Bullock’s stare. “Whatever you need.

Bullock left, nodding curtly and slamming the door behind him. Gordon did his best to smooth over the awkward moment.

“So you and Jack have been here two years. You tend bar.”

“I own The Batcave but I don’t… really work there. Dick does.” Gordon looked up curiously. “My ward. Richard Grayson.”

“No other kids?”

“No kids at all, really. Dick’s more of a little brother to me, really.”

“Right.” Gordon made another note. “So what does Jack do, most days? A man like that, a creative type, what does he do?”

Bruce hesitated. “He stays busy.”

“Doing what?”

“He’s a big reader.” He offered lamely.

“Days can get long.” Gordon switched tactic, wheedling instead of using brute force. “I know sometimes that evening glass of wine starts coming at noon.”

“Jack doesn’t drink.” Bruce replied flatly.

“At all?” Gordon prompted.

“No… not… he drinks but he doesn’t _drink_.” Bruce replied agitatedly. Gordon nodded, making yet another note as Bruce tried to read what he had written upside-down.

“Does Jack have any friends we can talk to?” He changed the subject smoothly.

“Not really, no.” Bruce muttered.

Gordon arched an eyebrow. “No friends. In the whole city.”

“He likes his privacy.” He said resolutely.

“You said that.” Gordon nodded. “But there’s a difference between privacy and isolation.” Bruce didn’t respond, staring at the floor instead. “You got to The Batcave around eleven today. Where were you before then?”

“The roof of my building.” Gordon looked surprised, and Bruce explained quickly. “There’s a door for private access, but there’s also a fire escape that leads to the hall outside the loft. I go up there a lot.”

“Let me guess. You used the fire escape so you didn’t go through the apartment?” Gordon asked, prompting a resigned nod from Bruce. “Anyone see you up there?”

“No. Jack and I are the only ones who go up there.”

“So… your husband has no friends here…” Gordon thought for a moment, or at least made a show of it. “Is he stand-offish? Artist types can be… prickly sometimes. Get in people’s faces. Rub them the wrong way.”

“He’s complicated.” Bruce conceded.

“Type A?” Gordon asked. Bruce shook his head. “Type B?” At that, Bruce laughed hollowly.

“I don’t think he is a type.” Bruce muttered. “He’s not organized or neat but he’s particular. His brand of chaos is his own and if you try to mess with it, he…” Falling silent, he shrugged. “He doesn’t like it.”

“That can drive you crazy, huh?” Gordon’s tone shifted to a friendly and understanding one. “You don’t seem like that. Maybe not Type B, but you strike me as the type to go with the flow.”

Bruce remained silent, offering no further insight on himself. He knew he could be just as picky and particular as Jack was, but he wasn’t going to tell Gordon that. He had a feeling the man already didn’t like him.

“Speaking of that, what’s Jack’s blood type?”

“I don’t know.” Bruce shrugged. Something in Gordon’s expression shifted and he leaned closer, examining Bruce with an obvious level of disbelief and scrutiny.

“You don’t know if he has friends, you don’t know how he spends his days, and you don’t know his blood type? Are you’re married?”

Bruce met his eyes for the first time since the interview had started, glaring openly. “Maybe?” He replied flippantly, icy demeanor suddenly taking over, pushing out all other emotions. The two men stared other down for a long moment before Gordon sighed and looked away.

“You’re free to go.” He waved Bruce off, who stood and practically stomped out of the room, feeling worse than he had when this whole mess had started. Once he had disappeared, Bullock came back into the room.

“Let’s check the mall. Just cause he says Jack’s not an addict…”

Gordon nodded. “He doesn’t seem to know much about him, does he?”

Bullock shrugged.

“And let’s check into the illustrious Mr. Wayne. See what kind of man he is.”

Bullock rolled his eyes. “That’s easy. He’s the kind of man who plays on his phone while his husband’s missing.”


	11. Diary Entry III

I have become a strange thing. I have become a husband. I have become a HUSBAND, I have become a bore, I have been asked to forfeit my Independent Young Feminist card. I don’t care. I’ve gotten so retro, at one point I will probably use the word pocketbook, shuffling out the door in my swingy tweed coat, my lips painted red, on the way to the beauty parlor. Nothing bothers me. Everything seems like it will turn out fine, every bother transformed into an amusing story to be told over dinner. “So I killed a hobo today, honey … hahahaha!” Ah, we have fun!

I have found my match. It’s Bruce, laid-back and calm, smart and fun and complicated and interesting. Nice. Big penis. All the stuff I don’t like about myself has been pushed to the back of my brain. Maybe that is what I like best about him, the way he makes me. Not makes me feel, just makes me. I am fun. I am playful. I feel naturally happy and entirely satisfied. I am a husband! It’s weird to say those words. We do silly things, like last weekend we drove to Delaware because neither of us have ever had sex in Delaware. Let me set the scene, because now it really is for posterity. We cross the state line – Welcome to Delaware!, the sign says, and also: Small Wonder, and also: The First State, and also: Home of Tax-Free Shopping. Delaware, a state of many rich identities. I point Bruce down the first dirt road I see, and we rumble five minutes until we hit pine trees on all sides. We don’t speak. He pushes his seat back. I pull down my pants. I am not wearing anything underneath. I can see his mouth turn down and his face go slack, the drugged, determined look he gets when he’s turned on. I climb atop him, my back to him, facing the windshield. I’m pressed against the steering wheel, and as we move together, the horn emits tiny bleats that mimic me, and my hand makes a smearing noise as I press it against the windshield. Nick and I can come anywhere; neither of us gets stage fright, it’s something we’re both rather proud of. Then we drive right back home. I eat beef jerky and ride with bare feet on the dashboard.

Last night we sat on the floor, drinking wine and listening to old vinyl as the sky went dark and Manhattan switched on, and Bruce said, ‘This is how I always pictured it. This is exactly how I pictured it.’ On weekends, we talk to each other under four layers of bedding, our faces warm under a sunlit yellow comforter.

I know, I am ridiculous. I love it, though – I never knew I was capable of being ridiculous over a man. It’s a relief. I even swoon over his socks, which he manages to shed in adorably tangled poses, as if a puppy carried them in from another room. It is our one-year anniversary and I am fat with love, even though people kept telling and telling us the first year was going to be so hard, as if we were naive children marching off to war. It wasn’t hard. We are meant to be married.

It is our one-year anniversary, and Bruce is leaving work at lunchtime; my treasure hunt awaits him. The clues are all about us, about the past year together. We’ll end at the Fulton Street fish market, where we’ll buy crawfish, and I will hold the container in my lap as Bruce jitters nervously in the cab beside me. We’ll rush home, and I will drop them in a new pot on our old stove with all the finesse of a boy who used to catch them bare handed in a muddy old creek while Bruce giggles and pretends to hide in fear outside the kitchen door. I had suggested we get burgers. Bruce wanted us to go out – five-star, fancy – somewhere with a clockwork of courses and name-dropping waiters. So the crawfish are a perfect in-between, the crawfish are what everyone tells us (and tells us and tells us) that marriage is about: compromise!

We’ll eat crawfish with butter and have sex on the floor while a woman on one of our old jazz records sings to us in her far-side-of-the-tunnel voice. We’ll get slowly lazy-drunk on good Scotch, Bruce’s favorite. I’ll give him his present – the monogrammed stationery he’s been wanting from Crane & Co. with the clean sans-serif font set in hunter green, on the thick creamy stock that will hold lush ink and his words. Then maybe we’ll have sex again. And a late-night burger. And more Scotch. Voilà: happiest couple on the block! And they say marriage is such hard work.


	12. JULY 5TH: THREE YEARS BEFORE

“Two years.” Jack leaned over the table, folding his hands on the false wood grain veneer and placing his chin primly on top of them. Bruce gazed at him, amusement and affection, mingled in his gaze. “Two whole years of marriage.”

Blue eyes looking into green, a comfortable silence that spoke of nostalgia and comfort rather than a lack of things to talk about.

Then Bruce’s stomach growled, and Jack’s head came up, hands shifting so his palms were flat on the table, bracing himself as he tilted back in his chair and laughed.

“Way to ruin the moment.” The front legs of the chair thudded back to earth, Jack’s chin now propped on his hand, elbow up as he wiggled his eyebrows at Bruce in a mocking chide.

“Not my fault.” Bruce grinned, taking Jack’s free hand and running his thumb in small circles on the back. “I’m conditioned to get hungry when I smell Chinese food.”

As if to punctuate his sentence, the waiter came over and laid the various dishes they had ordered on the table, a bit of everything given that Jack could never decide on just one thing and had a tendency to steal from Bruce’s plate when he thought the man wasn’t looking.

“Before we dig in.” Jack gripped Bruce’s hand tighter when the man attempted to pull away. “Gifts? Year Two means cotton!”

“Can’t wait any longer, huh?” Bruce chuckled. “Sure.” He reached under the table and pulled out a bag, nudging some dishes aside to make room for it on the table.

“Open mine first.” Jack had produced an eclectically wrapped package, almost tossing it at Bruce in excitement, and upsetting some of the plates in his rush to clear a spot.

“Ok, ok. Watch your elbows, you almost dunked your sleeve in soy sauce.” Bruce sighed good naturedly, taking a moment to figure out how to unwrap the box and another moment actually taking the paper off. He did so neatly, saving the wrapping, despite knowing that Jack was practically vibrating out of his skin with anticipation. Setting the paper aside, he opened the box, revealing lush and expensive black sheets.

“Tadaaaa.” Jack clapped, a huge grin on his face even as Bruce stared at the gift like he was trying to figure out what it was. Noticing this, Jack’s excitement faded somewhat. “Because, we had that joke, that our sex was too good for normal sheets…” Wordlessly, Bruce reached into the bag he had set on the table and tugged it towards him. Jack continued to ramble on as he always did when he was nervous. “So those are 2000 thread count-”

He was cut off by Bruce tugging out the gift intended for Jack, holding it up next to Jack’s gift to him.

It was the same exact sheets, down to the brand name and thread count.

Jack’s eyes widened in shock, then lit up in absolute joy. A barely suppressed smile twitched on Bruce’s lips as he tried not to laugh.

“Sometimes I want to punch us in the face we’re so cute.” Jack muttered, leaning across the table and making sure to keep his sleeves out of the food as he grasped Bruce by the collar and tugged him in for a kiss.

They forgot the world around them for a moment, breaking apart at the same time, a silent acknowledgement that they couldn’t kiss forever.

“That’s crazy though, isn’t it?” Bruce whispered, barely enough room between them for his eyes to focus on the almost-solid-black orbs of the man sitting opposite him, the man he had married.

“Darling…” Jack whispered conspiratorially “ _We’re_ crazy.”

Bruce laughed, but Jack didn’t, a rare occurrence in every way. Instead, he kissed the tip of Bruce’s nose and sank back into his chair, fluidly grabbing a pair of chopsticks and snagging a piece chicken from a serving dish, popping it in his mouth and sighing in contentment.


	13. WAYNE MANOR: THE DAY OF

Dick wanted to know everything as soon as Bruce stepped through the front door. Thankfully, Alfred was preoccupied with dinner, so he only had to fend off one set of questions. That wouldn’t last for long, though.

“Did they ask if you wanted a lawyer?” Dick followed Bruce through the mansion, a deep frown creasing his brow.

“I don’t need a lawyer.” Bruce replied lowly, as if reassuring himself.

“Did they ask you personal stuff? About Jack?”

Bruce hesitated. “They asked why he has no friends here.” He opened the door to his old room, finding it as spotlessly neat as ever, no sign of dust, likely because of Alfred’s strenuous cleaning schedule.

“What’d you say?” Dick’s voice went up, half in annoyance at Bruce’s nonchalance, half in frustration from the lack of answers.

“I just said he was complicated.” He set his suitcase down on the foot of the bed, hating how much he felt like a visitor in his own home. Dick threw his hands up in exasperation as Bruce wandered over to open a window.

“Bruce, everyone knows “complicated” is code for bitch!”

Bruce’s phone buzzed. He gratefully pulled it out to check who it was, using that as an excuse to not respond to Dick’s pithy insight.

“I feel sick. It’s so bizarre… but it seems like the kind of thing that would happen to Jack. He always attracts…” He trailed off, sitting on the edge of the bed with his feet tucked under him.

“Trouble.” Bruce finished flatly. “We’re alone, Dick. You can say it.”

Dick sighed and flopped back, sprawling on the bed and mussing up the originally perfect sheets. “Just because I don’t _love_ Jack doesn’t mean I don’t care about him.” Bruce gave him a skeptical look that he seemed to sense without actually seeing it. “He’s your husband. My kind-of dad kind-of brother kind-of uncle thing.” He waved a hand airily. “Family. And that means I want him safe. Just as much as you.”

Bruce didn’t respond, and eventually Dick left, shutting the door behind him and leaving the man alone in his childhood home, a place he had once loved, then hated, that now felt nothing more than a pool of stagnant water, somewhere he would float aimlessly until he either learned to swim, or sank.


	14. THE LOFT: THE DAY OF

“Someone run me through this.” Gordon asked, or ordered, depending on how you took it, broadly addressing the room full of swarming cops and scientists running over the crime scene with a fine toothed comb. Literally, in the case of a specialist picking through the carpet to look for stray fibers.

“That is definitely blood spatter you saw in the kitchen.” One member of the forensics team pointed to the sticky note Gordon had left next to a reddish splotch. “Things look normal… kitchen; knives; food prep; not that weird. But the positioning is strange.” Gordon nodded, eyes tracking along the room. “I’ll order a Luminol sweep.”

“Good. Keep me posted.” He moved into the bedroom, even more people bustling around, one riffling through the ashes in an obviously custom made fireplace, given that most lofts didn’t come with their own chimneys.

“This place probably costs more to rent per week than I make in a year.” Bullock grumbled, biting viciously into a chocolate bar like it was the reason he hadn’t struck it rich. “Place is rented, in Wayne’s name. Phones, credit cards, utilities all in his name. Mansion deed, obviously, and with the bar too, along with all the frills connected to that.”

“I don’t think that’s surprising.” Gordon half turned to Bullock, addressing him as he watched the commotion.

“No, but it is humiliating.”

Gordon rolled his eyes, almost rising to the bait before an officer approached them and saved him from a pointless argument.

“Found something. It’s way in the back there.” He motioned towards the walk in closet, stepping aside so Gordon and Bullock could see for themselves. With Gordon in the lead, and a much less focused Bullock trailing, they moved past a mix of neon shirts and ties with the occasional muted tone sporadically mixed in until they spotted it. At the far back, an open drawer with a lilac envelope sticking out.

The words “Clue One” in a near illegible scrawl, penned in bright red ink.

“Well.” Bullock snorted, sticking the rest of the chocolate bar in his pocket. “Ain’t that convenient.”


	15. ONE DAY GONE

Bruce fell asleep in his clothes, sometime around 5 am, thanks to the now empty bottle of bourbon that had been stored in his father’s antique liquor cabinet. It was far too expensive to get drunk on, but at this point Bruce didn’t care. Sometime around 7, Dick entered, without knocking, took in the sight of him on the bed and the empty glass and bottle on the side table, sighed deeply, and left. A few minutes later, Alfred returned carrying a breakfast tray laden with fruit, pancakes, coffee, juice, and Advil.

“Master Bruce.” He said, not at all quietly. “Unfortunately, you have no time to be hungover. There’s a press conference today and your presence is required.” He nudged the bottle aside to make room on the side table for the tray. Bruce made a groaning noise and didn’t move until Alfred pulled the curtains back, letting in a tsunami of sunlight and prompting him to roll out of bed.

He took the Advil with the coffee, checked his watch, rubbed his eyes, and checked his watch again. Dick wandered in once more, sitting on the bed and picking at the fruit on the tray as he studied Bruce.

“I should shower.” Bruce muttered.

“Nah.” Dick shook his head, mouth full of blueberries. “Go just like that. You’ve been up all night. You want to look like you’ve been up all night.”

Alfred made a disgruntled noise. “You certainly do look as if you’ve been awake for a few days.” He sighed. “At least change your clothes. Lookind tired is one thing, looking slovenly is another.”

“And be careful today, ok?” Dick said carefully.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dick sighed heavily, glancing at Alfred for help. When the man said nothing, he scowled and continued. “When you’re upset, you bottle up.” He shrugged, choosing his words carefully. “You can seem… angry.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, but Dick pressed on, not letting the subject drop. “Or else you swing into your playboy persona and come off as offensively obnoxiously charming. And right now that’s exactly not what people need to see.”

“I’ll try to balance on the exact edge of your emotional razor.” Bruce muttered.

“Just be…” Dick began, then hesitated.

“Myself?” Bruce asked glibly. Silence followed, the obvious answer hanging in the air without anyone actually saying it.

Bruce didn’t touch his food, changing clothes and running a tired hand through his hair when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. If the goal was to look tired, he had succeeded.

Alfred drove him and Dick to the police station, dropping them off with the promise to pick them up afterwards. He wasn’t going to put in an appearance, and Bruce didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t either if he didn’t have to.

There were plenty people milling around, Bruce and Dick attempting to work their way through the crowd without much success. It wasn’t long before they were separated, Bruce pulled into a conversation with an overly sympathetic volunteer as Dick was cornered by Detective Gordon.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a few-” He began, but Dick held up a hand, cutting him off.

“Before you try to get me to unwittingly point to Bruce as the guilty party, let me tell you a secret about him. He looks like the preppy asshole from the 80s teen movie, but he’s really the A/V nerd with the pet ferret.”

Gordon’s eyebrows shot into his hairline.

“A ferret.”

“Hypothetically.” Dick nodded.

At that moment, Bruce stepped up onto an impromptu stage. A huge picture of Jack was revealed, a rather flattering one that softened his features and made him look more impish than malicious.

“Thank you for coming.” Bruce began, scanning the room as cameras flashed. “My husband, Jack Napier Wayne, went missing from our home on July 5 between 9 am and 11:30 am under very concerning circumstances. We ask for anyone who may have knowledge of what has happened to her to come forward.” He fell silent. Dick cringed. The entire thing came off as robotic and emotionless.

Cameras continued to flash. Bruce looked annoyed, standing stiffly next to Jack’s photo. Catching Bruce’s eye, Dick motioned for him to relax. He clenched his jaw for a moment before flashing an overly charming and oily smile. The cameras went into overdrive, and a second later, he dropped it and stepped off stage.

Gordon approached him immediately. “We have a few things you probably want to see, and I’ve got a few more questions about some people in Jack’s life.”

Bruce frowned, sharing a look with Dick who appeared to be just as confused, though not quite as irritated.

“One of them might be a suspect.” Gordon prodded.

“Alright.” Bruce nodded reluctantly. “Lead the way.”


End file.
